


All The Time You Need

by maxbegone



Series: Schitt's Creek Tumblr Prompts [7]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Prompt Fill, Tenderness, david rose is a wonderful husband, sad kisses, so i hurt myself writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24955753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone
Summary: When Patrick was nine years old, his father and his grandfather taught him how to fish at this very spot; a muddy bed on the edge of a beautiful lake some forty minutes north of his grandfather’s house.--Written for the prompt: a sad kiss.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Schitt's Creek Tumblr Prompts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806070
Comments: 12
Kudos: 131





	All The Time You Need

**Author's Note:**

> I got carried away with this one.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr as a prompt fill. ](url)

When Patrick was nine years old, his father and his grandfather taught him how to fish at this very spot; a muddy bed on the edge of a beautiful lake some forty minutes north of his grandfather’s house. 

When Patrick was nine years old, his grandfather placed a fishing rod in his hand and taught him how to cast, showed him the proper bait to use, and taught him how to replace his fishing line.

When Patrick was nine years old, his grandfather hummed nonsense tunes and told stories while he and his father stood on the banks and laughed with him. 

When Patrick got the call on Sunday night, he knew. 

His grandfather was in his late eighties and had been on the decline for several years, slowly losing his ability to walk with age and was always flanked by aides and paraded around in a wheelchair. He always smiled, regardless.

He managed to come to their wedding, that subsequently being his first time meeting David. 

Patrick wasn’t quite sure he would understand who David truly was when they first met at the rehearsal dinner the night before, what with his mind not being all there. But there was this shine to his grey eyes that told Patrick he knew. Oh, he _definitely_ knew. This was the same man who used to wax poetic about love and his late wife, and the look he had then was the same he had when he talked about Patrick’s grandmother.

His grandfather wore this slightly-dopey smile on his face when David shook his hand for the first time and said, “It’s nice to meet you.” He almost refused to let go of his husband as he put his cold hands around David’s own and held them there. When Patrick looked over at his father who was standing behind the wheelchair, he was smiling tearfully.

David had kissed Patrick’s temple and insisted that his grandfather sit next to them the whole night. They had to speak louder in order for him to hear the stories they were telling, and at one point, David was roped into the old man’s fleeting, spaced-out stories of Patrick’s childhood as well as Clint’s and how similar they were to each other growing up. 

At the wedding the following evening, he wore the biggest grin of them all. At the reception, he happily took the second-biggest slice of cake (next to David’s), and insisted on placing as many flowers in his lapel as he possibly could. Patrick never met his grandmother, she’d passed a few years before he was born, but he knew his grandfather constantly gifted his late wife flowers - either bundled up in a bouquet or a single piece. 

That tradition was silently passed on to Clint, and now to Patrick, who always makes sure there’s a fresh bouquet on their windowsill in their kitchen. 

So on that Sunday, just a few days after David and Patrick hit their six-month wedding anniversary, he received a call from his father about his grandfather’s passing. They were in the car early the next morning, David at the wheel while Patrick stared out the window silently at the passing scenery. His parents greeted them each with a hug, Patrick holding his father just a little longer. 

The funeral landed on that Tuesday afternoon. Patrick wore a dark suit and shirt, no tie, and a royal blue pocket square emblazoned with a gold _'B'_ in one corner that belonged to his grandfather. David stood behind him the whole while, one hand holding his, David’s free arm wrapped around his back as Patrick rested his head against his shoulder. 

While most of his family flocked back to his parents’ house for a quiet reception, Patrick asked David to drive to the lake he used to fish. David did so with no questions asked. They drove in silence. 

The lake looked the same as it did years ago; the beach was still muddy in the grassy spots, as far as Patrick could tell, and it still smelled a little dank, but there is still a charm to it all that brings a sad smile to his lips. HIs stomach twists with some melancholic nostalgia as he bites back tears, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his dress pants. He has the pocket square clutched tight in a fist as he stands there watching the water.

There’s a soft crunching of sand beneath shoes, and he can sense David’s presence beside to him before he even looks over.

“I know you wanted some time alone,” David says as he places a comforting hand on Patrick’s shoulder, “but you’ve been out here for awhile and I wanted to check up on you. I was getting a little worried.”

Patrick hums, unmoving. David had stayed behind in the car parked thirty feet away to let him think, and considering Patrick had only said a handful of sentences throughout the entire day, David’s worry was valid. 

Patrick removes his hands from his pockets and twists his wedding band. 

“Do you think he knew at the wedding?” He asks it more to the open water than his husband. “That he was dying? That it was one of the last times I’d see him?” He faces David now, his eyes stinging with tears. “Do you think he knew?”

David’s lips disappear somewhere tucked between his teeth as he looks back at Patrick. “I don’t know,” he says, voice honest and brows high. “I really don’t have an answer for you.”

Patrick lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I...that was a dumb question, wasn’t it?”

“No. I just don’t think I should sugar-coat it.” 

Patrick’s head drops toward the ground. His shoulders begin to shake as he cries, and David pulls him into his chest. His arms wrap tight around his shoulders, steeling them, and David begins to sway with his lips buried in Patrick’s hair. 

He clings tightly to the back of David’s dark grey button-down, his jacket long-since removed and carefully draped in the back seat of the car with his own. Patrick feels weak and very much like a child as he sobs, a thing he does so rarely, but he can’t control it. And really, he doesn’t feel much shame in regards to it. 

Some time passes. He can hear the chirping of birds around them in the early evening, and somewhere, miles away, he knows his parents are wondering when they’ll be home. So Patrick finally takes a small step back from David’s embrace and looks at him. 

He’s surprised to see he’s husband’s eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. 

Patrick clears his throat. “Maybe we should head back?”

"Only if you’re ready,” David says as he rubs his hands against Patrick’s shoulders. “We can take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.” 

He stares for a long minute into his husband’s eyes and then kisses him. There’s no fervency behind it, it’s languid, but the kiss is still a kiss, and Patrick needs it like he needs air to breathe. David’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, and even as they pull away, it lingers there.

“You okay?”

Patrick purses his lips but nods. “I will be.”

“I’ll drive, honey,” David whispers, his lips meeting Patrick’s hair once again. 

The ride back is less somber, but exhaustion catches up with him as they cruise along the highway, and Patrick’s asleep against the cool glass of the car window not long after. He wakes when they pull into his parents’ driveway, and David is looking over at him with a gentle smile. 

They squeeze hands over the console before walking up drive, arms wrapped around each other’s waist. It’s sunnier now as they enter the house where his mother envelopes him in a comforting hug and he cries again. 

On the mantle above the fireplace, matching one they have in their office back home, is a framed photo from their wedding; Patrick and David and Marcy and Clint with his grandfather in the middle sitting in his wheelchair smiling happily at the camera. Despite how frail he looked that day, he was so overjoyed with the cake and flowers and festivities. 

Patrick clings to his grandfather’s pocket square the rest of the night and stays glued to his husband’s side. The silken bit of blue fabric ends up tucked neatly in a mahogany box on their dresser, and Patrick wears it with every suit he deems fit.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com)


End file.
